The Chelsie Chapters
by CeeCeeSings
Summary: Hi all! This is a series of Chelsie-centric fics inspired by prompts I've received here and on Tumblr. Each chapter is a new story/prompt! Have a prompt you want to see come to life? Feel free to drop in the comments/PM me. All CHELSIE ideas welcome here, angst, romance, M, fluff, family, AU, you name it! Rating may change based on prompts received. :-)
1. Home

**The Chelsie Chapters – Prompt Fics**

 **A/N: This is the first of series of little vignettes based on Chelsie prompts from tumblr. This one was sent to me by canadianjudy, one of my faves!**

 **NB: If you have a Chelsie prompt you want fulfilled, feel free to leave it in the review section/PM me!**

 **~CeeCee**

 **THE PROMPT:**

 **Charles and Elsie, either engaged or married, argue, and she storms out. The next morning, she's nowhere to be found, and he realizes how insensitive he's been. Meaning further infused with lyrics from this Charlie Rich classic:**

 _"I woke up this morning,_

 _Realized what I had done_

 _I stood alone in the cold gray dawn_

 _I knew I'd lost my morning sun." ~ The Most Beautiful Girl in the World, Charlie Rich_

 **Chapter 1 – Home**

After their kiss during the Bates' celebration, in his study, he thought things would return to usual. No, no, that wasn't right. Not usual, per se; rather, that they would more easily find their footing with each other.

But the world still felt tilted, slightly askew. He supposed it was because nothing was _usual_ for them, not anymore. He'd not take back his proposal, nor her acceptance, for anything in the world. However, it had changed everything for them, hadn't it? How _couldn't_ it?

 _It's all so untidy_ , he thought, as he reached the door of her office with a bottle of Bordeaux and two glasses in hand. That was the problem, wasn't it? All of the rules that had once bound them to mere glances and wishes and friendship straining at the seams no longer applied.

Being in love, it seemed, and having that love returned, sent all of the old restraints out of the window. How thrilling. How _terrifying._

He rapped on the door and entered after hearing her bid him do so. He shut the door gently behind him and simply observed her for a moment. Her head was bent over her ledger; she glanced up, smiled at him, as she filled in some figures. Just that: how many times had she smiled at him, in the past three decades? They'd always buoyed him, but now they sent him soaring, like a leaf on a breeze. Held aloft, yes, but without an exact direction in mind.

She joined him at the little side table she had against the wall as he opened and poured the wine for them. They sat there in companionable silence for a few moments, listening to the sound of the downstairs winding down, the world beyond her door bedding down for the night. His hand reached out and took hers, and they sat there, joined together on the tabletop.

She finally spoke. "Do you think, Mr. Carson, we ought to settle the details for the wedding? The date, the venue?"

Her voice was hesitant. They'd not been able to agree, exactly, on _anything_ to do with their nuptials, other than that they did, in fact, want to marry each other. He'd never been so certain of anything in his long life: he wanted to marry this woman sitting across from him, whose warm palm was pressed against his.

It was getting there that seemed to be the rub. He cleared his throat, began to speak, carefully.

"Lady Mary has graciously offered us –"

"Oh, I know what the blessed Lady Mary has offered, don't you worry," her tone was light, but he felt her hand tense in his. "But _Lady_ _Mary_ isn't the one getting married, is she? Nae, it's the pair of us." And he saw she couldn't help but smile at the thought of marrying him, which made her tone easier to tolerate.

"It's an _extraordinarily_ generous offer, Mrs. Hughes, and I don't think we should throw it back in their faces, as I've said before," he simply couldn't understand why she was being so rigid about this. It would be an _honor_ to be married in this beautiful house, where he'd lived and worked for so long. And, if he was honest with himself, he was deeply honored that Lady Mary had offered it.

"Me mam always told me, Mr. Carson, there are two answers when someone offers you a gift: 'thank you' or 'no thank you,'" she retorted, and he was dismayed when she pulled her hand away from his. "You know what my answer is on this, and I'll not be changin' me mind on it. This house…this house is most _certainly_ not where I want to be married."

He was trying mightily not to be irritated with her. "Why ever not, Mrs. Hughes? Have we not spent most of our lives here? Aren't the Crawleys our family and don't we owe –"

"They are decidedly _not_ our family, they are our employers," her voice no longer held any lightness; it was brusque and businesslike. He was as distressed as he was angry now. "And this house is not our home –"

He finally interrupted _her_. "Not our home? How can you say that? When we both have –"

Now she rose, and he stood as well, surprised. She looked very agitated, her breathing deepened. "This is not our home, it is where we live."

"Is there any difference?" _Why were they arguing? How, exactly, had this happened, and so quickly?_ He looked at their nearly-full wine glasses, sitting together on the table, with regret.

One of her heavy breaths caught, and her chest hitched. "All of the difference, all of it, in the world, Mr. Carson. I am…am…flummoxed…you cannot see it."

"You know, Mrs. Hughes, I'd not thought you would get so flighty and emotional, preparing for the wedding," he decided to match her abruptness. It seemed like safer ground. No matter where he stepped in this conversation, it seemed, he was an inch away from plummeting over the edge.

She suddenly became very still, and a smile twitched at the corner of her mouth. There was no humor in it, however. "Flighty…" she muttered, and there was almost a question in it. Her head was bent over, as if the answer to everything was below, on the floor. Then she gazed directly at him, took a deep breath.

"'Tis not our home, Mr. Carson, though it _is_ where live, where we have lived, as you say, for most of our lives. But we cannot live our married life here, in this house, now, can we? It will not be our home, not ever. No, while we live here, in this glorious house, with the glorious Crawleys, our lives are not _really_ joined. Not yet. I'll retire to my room, and you'll retire to yours. Which is what I am going to do, now, before I say anything else I regret."

And then, she was gone.

Before he could ever react, she had left in a whisper of damask and the muted jingle of keys, leaving him alone, in her office, with two full glasses of wine, the scent of her in the air, and a sense that he'd not realized, exactly, what they had been talking about.

All he understood, was he had made a right mess of it.

oooOOOooo

He couldn't find her.

He'd spent most of the night in his bachelor's bed, striving towards the peace sleep would provide, but never quite succumbing to it. Mornings were usually bustling at Downton, but even if he didn't get a glimpse of her before then, he always knew she'd be at his right elbow, caddy-corner, when the servants all sat for their own morning meal.

But she wasn't there – just her empty seat, glaring at him accusingly.

The noise and chatter of breakfast washed over him, along with a wave of unease. Where could she possibly _be_? He remained outwardly staid, but he barely tasted his toast and tea. The conversations of the staff were faraway static, drowned out by the rush of his heart in his ears.

"Mrs. Hughes isn't joining us for breakfast, then?"

The question pierced his reverie, asked casually by Thomas Barrow. Anna Bates looked up at him across the table.

"It's her day off, and she's actually taken it for once. I saw her earlier. She was off to the village, then Ripon, I believe, running errands," the lady's maid answered the under butler. "She has a wedding to plan, remember, Mr. Barrow?" Anna's brief grin at him, Charles, made him feel even more uncomfortable.

She rarely took advantage of her free days, with on occasional exceptions. Now that he was aware of her sister's existence, something that _still_ worried at the edges of his consciousness, he could look back and understand some of her day-long trips had been visits to the seaside sanitorium in Lytham St. Annes. The only other free days she'd fully participated in, to the best of recollection, were those days last fall, when they'd house-hunted together.

What had she called that ridiculous, now obviously transparent scheme of his?

 _"…our little dream..."_

The memory of that moment, that realization, which was the instant he knew he _must_ marry her, if she'd have him, pestered him all morning. Towards midday, he was heading down the hallway, towards his study, to rest for a moment or two. His sleepless night and distracted mind were catching up to him.

"Alright, Mr. Carson?" Mrs. Patmore was in the doorway leading to the kitchen, a concerned look on her face. "Let me bring you a spot of tea, to your study." Before he could protest, which he wasn't particularly inclined to do, she turned back towards the crowded stove.

Ten minutes later, she appeared in the doorway of his study, with a tray of tea and biscuits.

"Thank you, Mrs. Patmore, but there's no need for fussing," he took the fragrant cup she proffered to him gratefully.

"Oh, I'm not so sure of that, Mr. Carson," the cook responded as she turned back towards the door. "Everyone needs a little fussing over, every now and then." She paused at the entryway.

"I don't know what was said, nor am I askin'," the cook said. "But she was in a right state this morning, like a bag o'weasels. I've seen the pair of you get into it over the years, but it's not quite the same, now, is it? Yeh're gettin' married. It changes things, doesn't it, Mr. Carson?"

"I suppose it does, Mrs. Patmore, but I'm not quite sure why Mrs. Hughes is being so _sensitive_ about it all," he hadn't meant to say that. Or anything, really. His frustration was bubbling towards the surface again.

"Sensitive or not, Mr. Carson, yeh're responsible for each other now, aren't you? I don't mean to speak out of turn, or, well, maybe I do, a little," she laughed, shrugged. "But livin' the way we all live, there's a certain independence about it, isn't there? No husbands, wives, family, not in the everyday sense. That'll change for the two'a you, and soon, won't it, Mr. Carson?"

Her tone was calmer, her words, less tense; but she was echoing what Elsie Hughes has said to him the night before.

"Her happiness is _my_ responsibility." He said it with certainty, finally understanding. The day seemed a little bit brighter.

"Indeed it is, Mr. Carson. She's her own woman, as you and I both know very well, but there you have it. She may…rely…on you a bit more, now that yeh're getting married, don't you think?"

The cook left before he could formulate a reply. In any case, he already had the answer.

oooOOOooo

It was just before the staff's suppertime and he was sorting through the contents of a stack of folders he'd requested earlier today. He got a bit lost in the task; it was the first time all day that he'd finally felt peaceful.

"How was your day, then?"

She startled him. She stood in his doorway, still in her coat and hat. She'd stopped into to see him, even before she removed her outside clothing. It made his heart soar.

"Rather gray, without _you,_ Mrs. Hughes," he stood, straightened his waistcoat. Her cheeks bloomed pink, and she looked away. She didn't seem angry any longer.

"Mr. Carson, I –"

"Mrs. Hughes, if I may," he held his hand up, interrupting her. He walked over, and shut the door behind her. Then stood, gazing down at her. "I want to ask you two things; I hope you're willing to oblige me on them."

She nodded, her eyes searching his face. He continued.

"The first, is that we not talk about the wedding tonight." She opened her mouth to speak, then reconsidered. Nodded.

"And the other thing, Mr. Carson?"

"That you'll forgive me, for acting like an insensitive boor," he took her hands in his.

"Go on with you, then," she swallowed a few times, squeezed his hands tightly. "Ye've never acted like a boor, in all of the years I've known you, Mr. Carson."

"You accept my apology, then?"

"Of course I do, ye old booby, as long as you accept _mine,_ " she swiped a stray tear away, noticed his pile of folders, the papers scattered across his desk. "What's all this?"

"Right," he helped her off with her coat and hat, gestured for her to sit. He poured them both some tea, then sat back down across from her at his desk. He cleared his throat, rubbed his hands together. "Well, you said something last night, Mrs. Hughes, that –"

"Oh, I said a great deal of things last night, Mr. Carson, likely many I shouldn't have," she chuckled, rolled her eyes at him and something in him settled, finally.

"Never mind that now," he raised an eyebrow at her. "One of the things you _did_ say, that was quite right – as much as I love Downton, it will not be our home once we are married. That's what _these_ are." He gestured to the pile of folders on his desk, each enclosing the details of a likely spot where the pair of them could start their married life.

She set her teacup down, reached, again, for his hand. He grasped hers, looked at them joined, across his desk.

"Show me, then, what you've found, Mr. Carson," her eyes were twinkling.

"I would love to, Mrs. Hughes," he opened the first one. "Then we can decide on our home. Together."


	2. A Welcome Back

**Chapter 2 – Welcome Back**

 **A/N: After a long bout of Baxley-fever, I am back where I first started! I was going to address the prompts you guys so generously provided in order of receipt, but I decided that was silly and overly-rigid and not very creative of me. Besides, the one that this chapter is based on, an Anon Tumblr prompt, flows very nicely from the last chapter, I think.**

 **~CeeCee**

 **THE PROMPT:**

 **The Carsons return from their honeymoon and explore their new home, where they will live their married life together.**

 **NB: I am CeeCeeSings for a reason, and I adore musical theater, especially early 20th century standards, and I've performed this particular song a few times. It stretches credulity that a recording of the particular Gershwin tune featured in this chapter would have been available in the UK by mid-1926, the same year it was written, BUT Lady Rose DID live in America, after all. ;-)**

She was very, very tired. And very, very content.

After the little welcome back party in the servants' quarters, his lordship offered the Carsons a ride to their new home in the family's car. They'd declined graciously and thoroughly, nearly simultaneously. Robert Crawley had nodded agreeably, and once he walked away, they'd grinned foolishly at one another.

"We need the walk, to clear our heads," she whispered to her new husband. After the lush solitude of the little blue cabin by the seaside and their time together in Scarborough, the return to Downton was a jolt of the familiar…slightly tilted askew.

"Precisely," he replied. He'd given her another long look, then moved to chat with Ladies Mary and Edith. She watched him closely, as she almost always had, all of these long years, but – of course – her eyes were more open than they'd ever been. She saw that he, too, was tired, and happy; but also, she could see that being back was slowly redirecting his inner compass.

She knew she would always be his true north, his guiding star. Nothing would shake that. But there was so much _else_ at Downton that glittered and shone; including his own sense of his place in its firmament. As lovely as their time alone had been, they both lived in this world. They had been part of it, individually. Now, they would find their way together, despite all of the extraneous distractions of daily life.

And now, they walked in the early summer evening together, her arm tucked into his. Their bags had been sent on ahead of them. She could not contemplate unpacking everything at this late hour, let alone attend to whatever was missing from their little cottage. She wanted only to sit, to rest, perhaps hold his hand in hers. She thought of the lovely red velvet loveseat she had purchased in the weeks leading up to the wedding; it was secondhand, of course, but still a cozy place to rest after a long day's journey, and just the right size for the pair of them.

"Here we are," he announced, breaking into her thoughts. He grinned down at her, then at their front door.

"Our new home, Charlie," she smiled back at him, and she could see the slight ruefulness she felt reflected in his expression. Life was officially going to forever _change_ , from this moment forward. "Shall we, then?"

She moved forward and was suddenly swept off her feet, with a whoosh and a yelp: he was carrying her across the threshold.

"What are you doing, ye daft man?!" She yelped, but she was laughing. And something relaxed insider of her, something she hadn't quite realized was pulled taut until this very moment. The part of her they had woken up together over the past week, in that grand, beautiful bed in the cabin by the sea, rejoiced. She had been worried her husband would be overly influenced by their return to Downton. That the passionate, loving, and yes, _spontaneous_ man he'd been on their honeymoon would be forgotten, relegated to pleasant memories.

"There were…so many people, at Downton," he gazed down at her, and she wrapped one arm around his shoulder.

"Had you forgotten?" She teased, rubbing her fingers across the short hairs at his nape. "It's quite a grand house, would be rather a shame for it to be drafty and empty, now, wouldn't it?"

"Such impertinence," he sighed, leaned down and kissed her, set her gently on her feet. She leaned against him, his arm around her waist, and, for the first time, they gazed around at their new home.

And her heart soared in her chest. Their friends had been here; their kindness and thoughtfulness lingered in dozens of small touches her eyes kept flying to: a row of old but buffed copper pots, hung over the sink, foraged by Mrs. Patmore; a lace table runner, certainly created by the deft fingers of Miss Baxter; fresh flowers, in vases and pots, placed about the four rooms, adding grace and lusciousness to the place, certainly procured from the elder Mr. Molesley and arranged with expertise by Anna.

"Oh, look, Charlie. It's lovely, isn't it?" She glanced up at him and was surprised to see tears gathering at the corners of his eyes.

"It's brilliant," he brushed the tears away briskly, leaned down again to kiss the corner of her mouth. "Elsie, look…" he trailed off and walked over to the small dinner table. There was a small pile of cards with their names on them, next to a bottle of champagne chilling in a bucket. Her new husband's forehead creased as he read over a folded note that had been placed on top of the pile.

"From Mrs. Patmore," he waved the single sheet at her, and she grinned. "She hopes she didn't overstep her bounds," at this he paused, raised his eyebrow, and looked at her pointedly.

"Go on with you, then," she burst out laughing. "Usually when Mrs. Patmore oversteps her bounds, it benefits _us_ in some way, big or small. What's she done?"

"All of this here," he gestured broadly to their new abode, "has been outfitted with gifts from both staff and family from Downton. She considered leaving them wrapped for us to parse through, but thought we'd appreciate things being set up when we got back."

"Good on her," Elsie sighed, taking off her hat and light jacket, passing it to him to hang by the door, along with his own. "I am certainly I'll find ten things I want to move to different spots, but bless her for doing the bulk of the work for us, before our return."

She moved from the kitchen into the sitting room and smiled at her loveseat. There were two new, nearly-matching round pillow setting on either side of it, with a light throw blanket arranged artfully over the back. New curtains danced in the summer breeze, the light purple light of twilight filtering in.

 _Home,_ she thought, sighing contentedly. _And our friends have warmed it for us, before we've even slept a night here._ Her heart danced a little in her chest at that thought. Evenings in bed the past week or so were certainly a contrast to her bedtime routine for most of her life, and she wondered how they would manage that side of things now, here, in their home, not as honeymooning lovers.

She heard Charlie enter the sitting room and turned away from the window to face him. He placed the stack of envelopes on the loveseat, set the bottle of champagne and two flutes on the small side table.

"Shall we, then, Mrs. Carson?" With a flourish, he popped the cork expertly.

"I thought it was to still be 'Mrs. Hughes' for the convenience of the glorious family yonder," she replied dryly, taking the glass, and taking any bite out of the words by reaching up to kiss him lingeringly.

"Well, yes, certainly, but outside of Downton –" he began, and she giggled a little, sipped her drink.

" _Outside_ of Downton! There's such a thing, now, isn't there? Wonders never cease," she grinned at him, then her eyes caught yet another gift, this one rather extravagant. "Charlie! Look!" She pointed.

"A Victrola," he mused, looking quite pleased. She knew oftentimes the progress of the world worried at him, but, oh, did he love music. And to have a record player of his very own…

"It's from Lady Rose," he read the small card that had been left next to it. "And she's left us some records, as well, with instructions on which are the best, and to be played first." They both laughed at the earnest, kind-hearted young woman wanting the gift to be _just right._

She watched him fuss and fiddle with the records, and then with the machine itself, sitting down on the loveseat. Music burst from the fluted cone in a small hiss of static.

"Gershwin," he announced, "both of them. Apparently, this is the hit from their newest musical revue." He joined her, and it was as she had thought: they fit perfectly together. He laced his fingers through hers, and she leaned her head against his shoulder, just relishing that she could do so, now, in this home, whenever the mood struck her.

The singer's plaintive voice caught her attention:

 _"…lookin' everywhere, haven't found him yet,_

 _He's the big affair I cannot forget;_

 _The only man I'll ever think of with regret.  
I'd like to add his initials to my monogram._

 _Tell me – where is the shepherd for this…lost…lamb?"_

She grinned up at Charlie, and he down at her, as the chorus unfurled: 

_"There's a somebody I'm longing to see,_

 _I hope that he,_

 _Turns out to be…_

 _Someone to waaaatch over me."_

"Pretty, isn't it?" She smiled up at him. "I can see why Lady Rose wanted you to play it first."

"Yes, very pretty," his voice was husky as he looked down at her. "And makes me think of us, and of you."

"It does? Am I the lamb? Or the shepherd?" She couldn't help but tease, and the thunderous look on his did nothing to stop her.

"You, Elsie, are most certainly NOT a lamb," he responded. "But you've always watched over me, haven't you, Mrs. Carson?" He set his glass down, took her face in both of his hands.

"I have, I think, nearly from the beginning, in many ways, Mr. Carson," she set her own glass down, the champagne and the music forgotten.

"Welcome home," they each said, nearly together.


End file.
